The Cheerleaders(23)

Mr. Ward leans far back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. “Why do you think he was in my class?”

“I found a poem he wrote in her copy of Wuthering Heights,” I say.

“So a tenth-grade boy who wrote poetry to girls. That describes half my honors classes.”

My face must fall, because Mr. Ward pushes back in his chair and says, “Let me pull up my old class rosters.”

I drum my fingers against my knee while Mr. Ward moves to his computer. There’s some hollering in the hallway, and a guy in a backward baseball cap comes to a short stop in the doorway when he sees me. “Is the newspaper meeting still in here?”

“Yes, at three,” Mr. Ward calls out to him. “Come back then.”

The kid retreats and closes the door behind him, muting the sounds in the hallway. At the computer, Mr. Ward is tapping his finger against his mouse, eyes on the screen. “System’s slow,” he mutters.

I don’t know where to look, so I study the Globe Theatre fashioned out of Popsicle sticks atop the bookcase in the corner.

“Got it,” Mr. Ward says. “Jen was in fifth-period honors English.”

He hums to himself as he scans the screen. “Oh.”

I sit up straight. “What is it?”

“Ethan McCready was in Jen’s class.” Mr. Ward frowns.

Ethan McCready. I turn the name over in my head, waiting for a face to pop up. Nothing. I look down at the paper in my hands. Its edges have gone soft from my folding and unfolding it so many times.

I walk over to Mr. Ward, holding the poem out to him. “This is what I found.”

He takes the paper from me and studies it. Mr. Ward sets the poem down on his desk, his eyes still on it. “Wow. Ethan McCready. Now that I think about it, he sat behind Jen.”

“Did he have a reputation for stalking girls?”

“Not that I know of.” Mr. Ward rubs his chin. “He was one of those kids who made everyone uncomfortable, though. Bit of a loner, only wore black, always had to ask him to take his headphones out.”

Mr. Ward doesn’t need to elaborate. Every grade has a kid like that. “Did my sister ever complain about him?”

Mr. Ward almost looks sad. “No….From what I saw, Jen was always kind to kids like that.”

The knot in my chest tightens. Of course my sister would have been kind to Ethan McCready. Sometimes she was kind to people who didn’t deserve it.

She couldn’t even bring herself to throw out Ethan McCready’s poem.

“Do you know what happened to Ethan?” I ask. “After he graduated?”

“He didn’t. He was expelled that fall.”

“Why? What did he do?”

Outside Mr. Ward’s room, the voices reach a crescendo. The thud of a body against the door. Rowdy newspaper kids. I’m holding up the meeting.

“I don’t know. I always thought the whole thing was blown out of proportion,” Mr. Ward says. “But a girl saw him writing names in his notebook and went to Mr. Heinz.”

“Whose names?”

Mr. Ward hesitates. “The names of all the cheerleaders.”

“Like a hit list or something?” My stomach turns over.

“That’s what the administration decided it was, at least.” Mr. Ward glances at the door. “I don’t know, Ethan never struck me as violent. But I don’t blame them for not wanting to take chances.”

He stands. My cue to exit. He starts walking me to the door. “You know, you can stay for the newspaper meeting. We’re short on staff writers this year.”

“I’ve kind of got a full plate. But thanks.”

Mr. Ward doesn’t look at me as he opens his door. The boy leaning against it topples into the room, to laughter from the other kids gathered outside.

“Just a sad year all around,” Mr. Ward says.



* * *



—

I have thirty minutes before practice starts. I head upstairs, dodging Rach’s and Alexa’s texts asking if I want to go to Starbucks. I’ll tell them later that I had to get extra help in chem.

The sign on the library door makes me deflate. CLOSED FOR CONSTRUCTION. I vaguely recall Mrs. Barnes chirping over the morning announcements that we got funding for a new “smart learning” station.

I peer through the glass pane on the door. The lights are on, and the librarian is inside, arms folded, deep in conversation with a teacher who has her back to me.

The woman’s wiry gray-streaked hair is tied up in a scrunchie. There’s only one person in the school—and probably all of Sunnybrook—who wears scrunchies every day.

I back away, ready to haul ass, but the librarian spots me over Mrs. Coughlin’s shoulder. She frowns and walks toward me, and I’m trapped. Mrs. Coughlin turns around, eyes narrowing when she sees me.

The librarian cracks the door open. “We’re closed, hon.”

“I know,” I say. “I just need one specific book.”

“Which one?”

“An old yearbook.”

“Check with Mrs. Goldberg.” The door clicks shut in my face.

I sigh. Mrs. Goldberg is the graphic design teacher and yearbook advisor. Her room is downstairs, in the same wing as the photography darkroom and painting and sculpting studios.